


all the king's men

by elystia



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ancient Egypt, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Identity Porn, M/M, Slow Burn, Yugi is here to save the world, not a slave fic, socially awkward Atem doing his Best
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2018-10-19 23:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10650069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elystia/pseuds/elystia
Summary: The story goes like this: a young pharaoh sacrifices his life to seal away the evil threatening his country, his power alone insufficient to defeat the darkness for good. But there's a version of this story that goes a little differently, and it all beings with a prince playing hookey.Or: how a chance encounter can shift the fate of the world for millennia.





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> Does the world want yet another Ancient Egypt AU? No? Too bad!!
> 
> I've wanted to write one of these since I fell into this fandom well over a decade ago, so no time like the present, right? You can probably think of this as an elaborate fix-it for the entire premise YGO is built off of, but it's mostly an excuse for me to stuff all my favorite story and character elements into my favorite kind of YGO AU. Self-indulgence at its finest. Feel free to buckle in and join me for the ride!
> 
> As ever, [kyuu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kyuu/profile) is the beta hero we deserve.

Sand and grit crunch under his sandaled feet as he runs, the mid-morning heat already hanging thick and heavy over Waset, beating against his back all the way into the increasingly-crowded streets of the market. The linen of his makeshift disguise sticks unpleasantly to his skin, and he’d give anything to slide it off and let the warm breeze cool the sweat beading up on his back, but he knows better; though not many peasants would recognize him if they got a good look, even one would be enough to spell disaster.

He’d stolen away in the pre-dawn hours of the morning, knowing only the servants would be stirring so early in the day. Even so, escaping hadn’t been easy, nor had securing the makeshift cloak that casts obscuring shadows over his face in the otherwise bright light of day. He’d been careful to tie his hair down, pulling golden locks away from his face and stripping himself of any finery that would attract attention where he doesn’t want any. The servants won’t notice the missing garment - hopefully - and no one will think to check his jewelry plate - hopefully.

The road into the city is long and winding in places, surrounded by immaculate temples and the houses of nobility, before eventually giving way to open road, traversed mostly by merchants or traveling officials. The the lower half of the city eventually slides into view, smaller and less ornate buildings sitting clustered together, and Atem knows (from knowledge but not personal experience) that the road eventually leads into the port. He’s been to the city before, but not often, and never by himself; a thrill goes through him like a welcome chill in the heat. In terms of impulsive decisions, he prematurely decides this one is among his best. He’ll have to thank Set later.

 

_”No,” Set says firmly, not even looking up from his scroll._

_“Just one more game,” Atem insists, leaning over the edge of the desk. His head blocks the light filtering in from the windows that sit high upon the room’s walls; Set narrows his eyes as a shadow falls over his work. “You’re only mad because you always lose.”_

_Set isn’t pouting, because Set does not_ pout, _but Atem is fairly certain he’s doing some Set-like equivalent. Evidently he’s touched a nerve._

_“Then go find yourself a more worthwhile opponent,” Set returns flatly, and Atem knows he’ll be dealing with a grumpier-than-usual apprentice priest for at least a day and a half. His advice isn’t even helpful; it’s not as if Atem hasn’t already challenged everyone in the palace willing to play, short of waltzing into the servants’ quarters and demanding an opponent. But a servant would probably be so focused on not displeasing the prince that they would throw any match he challenged them to, and unlike Set, they wouldn’t politely insult him the whole time._

_It’s a feature he’s come to enjoy, in a world of reverent, princely treatment._

_“Fine,” Atem says, heaving a theatrical sigh that’s very at odds with the excitement coiling in his stomach. There’s nothing else for it. If he’s exhausted his opponents within the palace, then... “I will.”_

 

An entire day on his own: no guards, no escorts, no need to walk correctly or speak correctly. He’s still riding that high as he collides with something very hard and very unforgiving in his blind dash for freedom.

Stars explode behind his eyes as his head protests the sudden mistreatment, and it’s a full ten seconds before he manages to look up and assess what he’s just plowed into. A woman carrying a heavy-looking clay pot - the offending object, evidently, unless the woman is much harder than she looks - makes a soft _tsk_ sound in his direction. “You kids! Never looking where you’re running off to. If you need to play, do it away from the road.”

“I-” his voice sticks in his throat, but it’s no matter; the woman is already adjusting the pot on her hip and moving on, paying him no additional thought. He lifts an absent hand to his chest as he catches his breath, and as he watches the woman disappear into the throng of people weaving in and out of the market’s many stalls, the noise of it all crashes down on him like a wave he hadn’t noticed cresting above him. Vendors shout to passersby; children giggle and shriek as they dart between the rows, sticks held aloft like deadly blades; woodcutters and metalworkers clang, grind, and smash their tools in elaborate demonstrations of their skill; meats sizzle tantalizingly on open flames as breadmakers knead their dough. 

It’s exquisite, noisy chaos.

A grin splits his face, and no one pays the prince of Kemet any attention at all.

* * *

“Yugi?”

He wipes a bead of sweat from his brow, tongue pinched between his teeth as he works his adze along the supple wood. It’s expensive - cedar, an import - and if he screws up, it’ll be ages before he gets his hands on anything this nice again -

“Yugi!”

If he can just get the basic construction down and make all the pieces slot together appropriately, he’ll be able to work on the rest of the carvings, turn it into a real game, finally make the idea a reality instead of something that bounces aimlessly in his mind before he drifts off to sleep each night -

“ _Yugi!_ ”

Yugi starts violently, fumbling the small block of wood and wincing as it bounces across the floor. It clatters to a halt beneath a nearby work stool, and he opts to leave it there, given the figure standing rather imposingly in the doorway.

“Um,” he begins, wondering how long his master has been calling for him. 

The man sighs, crossing his arms. This isn’t the first time they’ve had this exchange, nor will it be the last. “At least you’re already in the workshop. Did you finish the task I assigned you?”

“Yes!” Yugi hops to his feet and makes his way over to the pile of pattern-cut wood pieces he’d been instructed to produce. It’s an impressive pile, all things considered - it had taken him half of the day before, and he’d gotten up early to finish the rest ( _so that he could work on his other project,_ a tiny voice in his mind reminds him, before he gets to feeling too sanctimonious) - though he still isn’t sure what they’re _for_. He wouldn’t be surprised if his master intends to sell them to a ship or carriage builder, but he’s not yet involved in that aspect of the trade, and he’s not particularly interested besides.

“Good.” There’s approval in that tone, and Yugi relaxes slightly. “I’ll be taking them out to the market this afternoon. You’re free to do as you please for the day, but be back before twilight, because-”

Yugi smiles despite himself. “‘Shadows stalk these streets,’ I know. Thank you, master.”

His master offers a curt nod before turning out of the workshop, and Yugi doesn’t even wait for his footfalls to disappear before scrambling under the stool to retrieve the fallen block of wood. He slams his head into the bottom of the stool on his way back up - curses, and rather colorfully at that - but relaxes when he notes that the wood didn’t scratch or scuff. 

“Thank the Gods.” He turns the piece over in his hand a few times. He could spend the rest of the afternoon holed up in here with no interruptions, carving away at the wood pieces until he gets them all just right. This much uninterrupted time is practically _begging_ for him to realize his idea in full, and... 

And... 

His stomach rumbles rather conspicuously. 

He groans as the promise of warm, freshly-baked bread floats unbidden into his mind. Well, why not? A day off is a rare thing, and he can see what the other woodworkers have produced lately. It might even give him ideas. 

He heads into the small sleeping room adjacent the workshop and opens the reed chest that contains the sum total of his worldly possessions. The wood block is exchanged for a drawstring bag full of clay beads - a stipend of sorts, for smaller purchases like breads and fruits - and he wastes no time making his way into the blazing mid-morning light.

* * *

The smell of freshly cooked food burns in his nose, lighting a fire under an appetite that hasn’t been sated since the day before. He creeps closer to a booth selling sizzling meats, arranged in a neat row over a dancing fire, and watches as customers barter their way to what Atem is certain is a delicious meal. He probably should have eaten before he crept from the palace. For that matter, he probably should’ve brought something - _anything_ \- to trade with. It simply hadn’t occurred to him, as he’s never once had to purchase a meal. Or anything, for that matter.

The realization comes far too late to be of any use to him; he’s certain he’s never felt so foolish. He continues past despite his stomach’s piteous protests, vowing he’ll come back later.

Each new stall fascinates him as he walks. The offerings tend to differ from the foods and goods he’s used to enjoying in the palace, usually the finest of any crop that passes into the port, be it foreign or Kemet-grown. The fruits and vegetables look different, less perfect, some even sporting blemishes. He wonders how they differ in taste, but the curiosity fades when he moves on to the next curiosity.

It’s an hour or two of wandering when he notices a group of children crouched in a circle down one of the narrow alleys, tossing dice and shouting with excitement (or dismay, in some cases). Watching them, he suddenly remembers the reason for this escapade in the first place: a worthy opponent. The kids are young, most likely his age, but that’s for the best - it means they’re more likely to accept his challenge and take it seriously.

He creeps closer and watches the group with interest, trying to suss out the rules of the game. They play with crudely-made dice, scuffed and worn to the point that it’s difficult to discern the markings, but it doesn’t seem to slow them down. Atem thinks of his own games at home, boards set with expensive cherry woods and ivory, the pieces carved by foreign sculptors renowned for their work; he realizes it then, that finding a senet opponent out on these streets is a fleeting dream. But as the children laugh and throw their heirloom dice over scattered sheep bones, that hardly seems to matter.

Atem takes a step forward as the match ends, meeting five curious gazes with a smile. “I’ll play next.”

 

He bluffs his way through four games, and part of a fifth.

He acknowledges it as bluffing right away, because he only has a vague understanding of the rules and doesn’t actually have anything to wager - at least not _on_ him - but kids are kids, so they think of little more than the joy of the game and the thrill of victory. 

Shame they’re not victorious. Not by a long shot.

Atem is resigned to giving up on finding a real challenge, but decides to give it one more game before moving on to the next curiosity. Even as he plays, he has one eye fixed on the mouth of the alley, watching the afternoon passerby come and go. It’s a while of people-watching before someone finally catches his eye. The boy is around his age (maybe a little younger, he guesses) with skin pale enough to set him apart from the rest of the people milling about. Atem calls out to him, startling an indignant yelp out of his current game partner.

“Hey!” Atem grins as the boy’s head whips around. “Wanna play a game?”

* * *

As Yugi makes his way into the heart of the market, he doesn’t expect to be noticed, let alone addressed. Only a handful of people in this city know him by name, only a few more know him by face, and he can’t imagine why any of them would be out here trying to grab his attention. As his head whips around at the sound of the voice, he doesn’t even expect that he’s the one being addressed. 

The red eyes meeting his own in a haughty challenge catch him entirely off guard, not to mention the group of other boys crowded around, all giving him looks ranging from dubious to irritated. He even looks behind him, just to make sure, but they’re definitely looking at _him._

Him? Play a match?

He shouldn’t accept. He has other things he should be doing, and he gets too immersed in the games, too competitive. Time slips away too quickly when he’s playing, and his opponents tend to lose interest after they’ve lost too many matches in a row.

He shouldn’t.

_Dammit._

* * *

The kid just about kicks Atem’s ass.

The newcomer is never smug - he’s all polite smiles, even as it’s clear from the glint in his eyes that he’s enjoying the thrill of a challenge as much as Atem is. The other kids gather around to gape as the game progresses, but the participants’ attention has narrowed down to nothing but each other.

“You’re good,” Atem says absently, eyes trained on the scattering of sheep bones between them. He’s more than a little surprised.

“Thank you,” the boy says, giving the dice a confident toss. His ever-polite smile takes on a slight edge; he’s happy with his roll. “I enjoy this kind of thing.”

It seems like an understatement.

The match lasts twice as long as any Atem has played that day, and he ekes out a win by the skin of his teeth. His opponent seems momentarily surprised by the loss, but Atem is gladdened to see he’s gracious in defeat.

“Good game,” the boy says, grinning. Now that the surprise has worn off, he looks _thrilled._

“What’s your name?” Atem asks him, handing the dice back to one of the still-gaping boys.

“My name’s Yugi,” he says, standing and brushing the grit from his knees. “It’s nice to meet you.”

* * *

They end up departing the alleyway together, Yugi eager to discuss the game - the rules apparently differ from the version he’s used to playing, and Atem offers his insights as a first-time player (which earns a shocked exclamation from Yugi). They’re well into the heart of the market by the time Yugi gives him a sudden sideways glance.

“Oh! You haven’t eaten, right? Hang on.”

“Ah— no, it’s fine-” Atem tries, immediately flustered, but Yugi has already disappeared through the throng of people. As he tucks himself away from the flow of traffic down the main road, he can’t help wondering if he’s come off as a starving orphan, or if this level of kindness is how Yugi conducts himself with everyone.

_Both options seem equally likely_ , he thinks, his stomach giving a well-timed grumble. 

Yugi reappears a few moments later, passing Atem a small loaf of bread. It’s still warm from the oven when his hand closes around it, and he can feel his face heating up as the rumbling in his stomach grows more pronounced. It smells _godly._ “Thank you,” he manages awkwardly, with what little dignity is left intact. 

Yugi just smiles. “I figured we could both use a bite to eat.” 

Yugi wastes no time biting into his meal as they walk among the stalls, so Atem sees no reason not to follow suit. The bread is to die for — crisp on the outside and fluffy in the center, practically melting on his tongue. It’s similar to the bread that’s cooked in the palace ovens, but he can tell there’s something distinctly different about it. The ingredients, perhaps, or an old family recipe. He has no way to know.

He’s almost demolished the entire loaf when he realizes Yugi is watching him.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Yugi asks, free hand rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck at realizing he’s been caught staring. Atem could burst out laughing right then and there; a pale-skinned boy asking him, the prince of Kemet, if he’s from around here...

But then, considering he’s never walked these streets himself until today, Yugi isn’t entirely wrong. For the first time he wonders how someone is meant to rule a country they’ve never really lived in.

“Ah- yes and no,” he says, scrabbling for a believable cover story. “My father is a tradesman, so we travel often.” He winces internally at the lie, but it’s not as if he can tell Yugi the truth.

Yugi nods, like maybe he’d figured as much. “It sounds like a hard job, but I bet you get to see all kinds of amazing things. Not to mention all different kinds of foods, and _games_ , you’ve probably seen some we’ve never even heard of here...” Yugi waves his arms around as he talks, including the hand still clutching his loaf of bread. Atem can’t help smiling to himself at the display. 

“What about you?” Atem asks, cutting into Yugi’s train of thought. The change of subject is abrupt, but he decides immediately that he doesn’t enjoy lying to Yugi any more than necessary. The less embellished his tale, the better. “Are you from Waset?” 

Yugi’s eyes widen; apparently he hadn’t expected this line of questioning to turn on him. “Oh! Yes. Well- no, actually. I wasn’t born here, but after...” He makes a vague gesture that Atem can’t interpret. “Anyway, I’m doing my apprenticeship here. My master is one of the best woodworkers in the city.”

Yugi says the last part with a hint of pride, but Atem can’t help thinking that “woodworker” doesn’t quite suit this boy. He’s wise enough not to say as much.

“You must be very good, then,” is what he says instead, and enjoys how the color rises in Yugi’s cheeks at the praise.

“I’m okay,” he mumbles, eyes fixed on where his feet scuff in the dirt as he walks. “I’ve only just started, so there’s still a lot to learn.”

“You have time,” Atem says with the firm confidence he’s come to think of as his _going to boss Set around one day_ voice. “You should show me something you’ve made sometime.”

Yugi perks up at that, though he seems to quickly curb his own excitement. “Maybe... How long will you be in the city for?”

Oh.

Atem hadn’t thoroughly considered the logistics of his cover story.

“We come through every few weeks,” he blurts out in a hurry. It seems reasonable enough, though he wonders how wise it is to bind himself to a schedule when he shouldn’t even be here to begin with. What if he can’t sneak out again? What if someone finds out and forbids it? “This market is the most profitable, so...”

Yugi beams at the news that his new friend won’t just up and disappear, never to be seen again. “In that case, maybe you can look at something I’ve been working on. When it’s done, I mean! I think... you’d probably enjoy it.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Atem replies, hoping he isn’t about to disappoint this boy terribly, and follows wordlessly as Yugi bounces over to a stall selling particularly fragrant fruit.

* * *

By the time they finally part ways, Yugi’s new friend insisting he’ll be expected by his father, the sun is courting the horizon. It’s just as well; Yugi had promised his master he wouldn’t be out past dark, and the market vendors have long since packed up their stalls for the night.

Yugi trudges back to the workshop, his footsteps feeling lighter than they have in weeks even as his feet ache in his sandals. When he’d left his birth city behind to begin his apprenticeship, he’d left his friends behind as well. Though he’d vowed to return and visit as soon as he practically can, the intervening time has been... difficult. Friends in a city this large are hard to come by, particularly with his work schedule. He suspects this might be the first time he’s had a full conversation with someone his age in at least several months.

_I made a friend,_ he can’t help thinking to himself, over and over and over as he pads through the squat doorway to his room. It’s only as he’s preparing to slide into his straw mattress for the night that he realizes something.

He never even asked for the boy’s name.


	2. II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told myself I'd finish this before going on vacation and I did, woo-hoo!

_It's dark._

_He walks for an unknowable time through what seems like an endless maze, stairs leading to doorways leading to nothing at all, over and over in an endless loop. He doesn’t know what he’s even looking for - a way out? That can’t be. Something in his soul knows that there isn’t one._

_His journey takes him down a corridor that he’s certain he’s traversed before, but how can he really know, when they all look the same? One step after another, and then suddenly - he feels the ground begin to crumble beneath his feet, but there’s no time to run or call out (who would hear him?). He’s falling, heart in his throat, mute in his terror._

_But he never hits the ground._

_He falls for what seems like an eternity, until the sensation gives way to a feeling very much like being caught in a spider's web. He feels small and helpless, stifled in the dark and waiting for the eight-legged beast to sink its fangs into him - this is worse, he realizes. He would rather hit the ground. Maybe then all of this would finally_ end _—_

 

Something nudges Atem hard in the side, yanking him from the darkness. He jerks upright, looking around frantically - the first thing he sees is Mahad, sending him a sour look from across his book of spells. The second thing he sees - when he swivels his head around to the source of his abrupt awakening - is Mana, seated to his right and trying desperately not to giggle. Atem blinks owlishly at her when she doesn’t entirely succeed, folding in on herself with light, tittering laughter.

The sound saps the tension out of him, like water through a sieve.

It's always the same dream, and in the past few months it’s visited him much more often than usual. He was scarcely more than a toddler when the nightmares first began, and they frightened him to the point that his handlers had difficulty urging him to sleep. Now, having endured years of the same dream night after night, he just laments the loss of a sound sleep.

That, and Mahad’s disapproving stare. That’s not particularly fun either.

“I’m sorry,” Atem mumbles, sitting up a little straighter and running both hands down his face to clear the remnants of fitful sleep. Something in Mahad’s expression softens, and he shocks both students by lowering his spellbook.

“Perhaps we should resume another time,” the magician suggests, to Mana’s slack-jawed awe. She looks between the two of them in disbelief.

“Wait - really?!” She leans into Atem’s space, making a grand production of scrutinizing him. “Prince... are you dying? You must be!” She leans back just as quickly, tapping her chin in a thoughtful manner. “Ohhhh, I bet that’s why Set is so sour about you right now! He doesn’t like being outdone, and dying dramatically is definitely more his-”

“It’s nothing,” Atem says quickly, shooting a furtive glance in Mahad’s direction. The magician just offers a long sigh, but they both know it’s a formality; he enjoys Mana’s antics as much as Atem does. “Set’s probably just in a bad mood, I don’t know—

“Actually,” Mahad cuts in. “The Pharaoh has requested your presence at the earliest convenience. I was planning to cut the lesson short today anyway.” Then, a little more gently: “And perhaps the Prince would not be amiss in getting some rest after that.”

Atem feels his stomach twist. “Of course,” he says automatically, hardly registering the words. Why does his father need to see him today? Wasn’t he supposed to be busy with the priests? Is it about -

“Yay!” Mana leaps to her feet excitedly, interrupting the panicked spiral Atem was set to launch himself down. “A day off!”

Atem nudges her in a bit of turnabout, noticing the way Mahad’s gaze turns from 'responsible but amused' to 'I made this day off and I can _un_ make it.' Mana is cowed immediately, resuming her seated position and dropping her head respectfully. “I mean- thank you very much, Master!”

Mahad turns away to hide his growing smile, but motions for both of them to get the hell out of his classroom. Mana doesn’t need to be told twice; she wastes no time grabbing Atem by the arm and dragging him out into the mid-morning sunlight.

* * *

_Atem is almost to the safety of his wing of the palace when he hears footfalls behind him. Steady, determined ones. Not a servant._

_“Atem,” the voice says, and Atem swallows._

_Set._

_He wheels around, standing up as straight and un-guiltily as possible, consciously refraining from wiping at the smudges of dirt still spotting his knees. It doesn’t matter, because the wordless flick of Set’s eyes says he’s noticed anyway._

_“They came looking for you, you know,” he says, arms crossed, chin tilted up in quiet challenge. Atem deflates, his many contrived excuses floating away uselessly. Of course Set already knows - Atem all but told him the moment he’d decided he was going to do it!_

_“What did you tell them?”_

_“I covered for you,” Set hedges._

_Atem blinks. “Why?”_

_“They would have my hide for it too, not just yours.”_

_Atem doesn’t think that’s an entirely honest answer. He thinks it’s probably more like “because you would have done the same for me,” or maybe even “because we’re friends.”_

_“I see,” he says, smiling as Set’s frown just grows more severe._

_The priest-to-be turns away, apparently deciding he’s said his piece. “Go change out of those peasant robes, before somebody else spots you.”_

_Atem doesn’t need to be told twice; he turns on his heel and dashes for his room, trying to hold back the bubble of giddiness that’s buoyed him all the way from the low town, fearing it might burst out of him at any second._

* * *

“Sooo?” Mana prompts, skipping along beside him as he makes his way to the throne room. He’s taking the long way through the palace - something Mana graciously doesn’t point out, possibly because it gives her ample time to dig for information. “What happened?”

Atem pauses, shooting her a sideways glance. “What do you think happened?”

“I dunno, that’s why I’m asking!” She tilts her head to consider him, like he’s a particularly confounding puzzle. “You seem really lost in your head, though.” A pause. “I mean, more than usual.”

“Hm,” he says unhelpfully, suppressing a smirk as he can just about _see_ the non-answer drive Mana mad. He resumes walking, footsteps lighter now.

“Tell me!” she insists, darting forward so that she can walk backwards in front of him, hands on her hips. “Prince! C’mon! Aren’t we best friends who tell each other everything?”

“Yes,” he agrees easily enough. “But you also share everything with everyone, not just me.” Mana’s cheeks puff up in wordless protest, which just earns a laugh from the prince. He glances around to confirm they’re alone, then abandons decorum by seizing her wrist and dragging her between two of the heavy stone pillars flanking the walkway. It shades them from the slanting rays of sunlight, and keeps them away from any curious, wandering eyes.

“I’ll tell you,” he whispers, and he can see the anticipation dancing in Mana’s eyes, “but you have to promise to keep it a secret, even from Mahad. I mean it! It’s serious this time.”

“I swear,” she breathes. “I won’t tell a soul! Really!”

Atem’s eyes do one last paranoid rotation - he even glances behind them, despite the fact that they’re pressed up against a stone wall - before he leans close and lets it out in an excited rush.

“I snuck out of the palace yesterday. _All_ day. And I didn’t get caught!”

Mana’s eyes grow comically round, this news apparently only somewhat less shocking than Mahad giving them the rest of the day off.

“No way! How did you do it?! Does Set know - is that why he’s so grumpy?”

“Set’s always grumpy,” he says dismissively, straightening up. “I think I just got lucky that nobody came looking for me yesterday. Everyone’s always so busy with their own tasks, they probably didn’t even notice.”

“Prince...” Mana’s expression goes from elated to worried in the blink of an eye. “You’re not gonna do it again, are you? There’s no way nobody would notice a second time! You’re the _prince!_ You’re always needed for, y’know, important stuff!”

“I don’t know yet,” he lies, thinking of the way Yugi’s eyes had lit up with excitement at the thought of Atem seeing whatever it is he’s been working on. How wretched would he feel to not keep that promise?

Mana makes a low humming noise as Atem brushes past her and continues his trek down the hallway, wondering whether the reason for his father’s summons will render the internal debate entirely moot. The sound of Mana’s footsteps resuming their skipping stride behind him is the only thing that helps ease his mounting anxiety.

* * *

Yugi spends his entire morning mulling over the game from the day before.

He’s not used to losing - it happens so rarely - and while part of him is thrilled, another won’t rest until he’s worked out a strategy that would have won him that game. But his opponent was cunning; the mysterious boy with the red eyes bluffs easily and gives nothing away, even when taking risks that could easily cost him his win. And yet, his confidence never seemed to falter. Yugi can’t help but admire it.

He groans as his distraction costs him another stab wound in the thumb, his adze missing the wood block entirely.

“Geez, pay attention!” he hisses to himself, sucking his thumb into his mouth. He’d decided to do his work out front today, that way he could watch people coming and going along the well-trodden road - but the downside is that passerby tend to stop and stare when he starts talking to himself. (It happens a lot).

He should be concentrating more - carving is an important part of becoming a master carpenter, and it will help him immensely in constructing his games - but it’s just so _boring!_ Every time he tells himself to focus on the task at hand, his mind immediately wanders back to the day before. He’s starting to resent his brain for it.

It won’t do - he owes his Master too much to let him down. After Yugi’s parents died, his Master hadn’t hesitated to offer him an apprenticeship in Waset, based on nothing but his long friendship with Yugi’s late father. _I have no passion for carpentry_ , Yugi’d told himself as he made the journey from his small home city, grief heavy on his shoulders and tears still stinging his eyes, _but a roof over my head and food in my stomach are irreplaceable._

It’s not a luxury afforded to very many orphans.

Now if only he could just _focus!_ He gives himself an ultimatum: no more thinking about the red-eyed boy, or the logistics of their match, or the work yet-to-be-done on his game. Not until he finishes the day’s assignments.

(He violates his ultimatum within ten minutes).

* * *

“Father?”

Atem feels small as he steps into the throne room. Pillars flank him on both sides, resplendent in their depictions of the gods and pharaohs, intimidating in their grandness. It’s almost as if they’re a counterpart to the priests who flank his father where he sits atop the golden throne, larger than life. Untouchable.

Atem’s future throne, he knows.

“Atem,” his father greets him, his smile as warm as ever. Atem begins to relax, but bites back a frown as the priests are summarily dismissed. They bow in tandem and file out wordlessly, leaving Atem and his father alone in the cavernous room.

Atem approaches the throne, some of his earlier concern returning. Surely he’s in trouble... right? He’ll be confined to the castle and watched all hours, he’ll never be able to sneak out on his own again -

“You act as though you’re walking across hot coals,” Aknamkanon chuckles, standing from his throne and smoothing out the length of his linen robes. He gestures for Atem to follow him as he descends the steps of the raised dais. “There are certain elements of your education that have not been tended to in some time. I intend to fix that.”

Atem’s anxiety gives way to curiosity, the clenching in his chest shifting from something unpleasant to something tentatively hopeful. “You, father?” Though his father is warm and loving - Atem could not want for more - most of the disciplines he’s learning have been overseen by others. History, scribing, magics...

“These are matters reserved for the Pharaoh,” his father explains, Atem’s curiosity piquing further. They pad down the hallway that runs behind the throne room, stretching from one end of the palace to the other - but it’s one doorway in particular that they stop at, Atem’s eyes widening.

He’s never been allowed past this doorway. It leads into the bowels of the palace, where the Priests practice their magics - but beyond that, he knows nothing. Atem follows his father as they descend what seems like endless stone steps, until the air itself tastes different, a testament to their depth beneath the palace. But after what feels like hours, the stairway opens up to a cavernous room with a large chasm in the middle. Though several platforms hang above it, its depth is unknowable - it seems to reach down to the very center of the world.

Atem swallows.

His father is the first to break the silence, as he leads his son to the throne that sits at the far end of the room, a small mimicry of the golden chair above them. “You know the story of the Millennium Items,” Aknamkanon begins, and Atem nods. When he moves to follow, his footsteps echo maddeningly around the empty room.

“Of course.” Atem recalls what he’s been told in his history lessons, over and over until his response is colored by the rote nature of the memorization. “They’re what allowed Egypt to finally achieve peace after the long wars.”

“That’s right.” Aknamkanon’s hand drops to the Millennium Pendant strung around his neck, his thumb sliding along the gleaming metal. “It was during my lifetime that we were still at war, and the power granted to us by the Items is what has allowed us to prosper. But they are a heavy responsibility to carry, Atem. They have a terrible amount of power, and must be used solely for the betterment of this country.”

Atem’s eyes drop to the Pendant, but he stays quiet, waiting for his father to continue. They both stand before the empty throne, but his father does not sit.

“The time for you to inherit the Millennium Pendant is not so distant. I want you to be prepared for that day.” He reaches up to lifts the heavy cord from around his neck, and holds the Item out for Atem’s inspection. The prince reaches out tentatively, then lets the Pendant settle in his cupped hands.

He swallows. It feels heavy... and warm, like some kind of power is coiling within it, giving it a pulse of its own. He thinks of the restlessness in his nightmares, inexplicably.

“Will you teach me how to use it?” The magic he learns from Mahad is one thing - basics, theoreticals, the very occasional application. But controlling the magic of a Millennium Item is another thing entirely.

Aknamkanon smiles, but Atem doesn’t see it because his eyes never leave the gleaming metal.

“That’s why we’re here, my son.”

* * *

The sun has just about set as Yugi finishes up the last of his work. He has several new splinters and a nasty blister to show for it, but shrugs them off; they’ll simply add to the hardiness of the callous later. He begins packing up his tools and brushing off the sawdust when a commotion down the road catches his attention.

At first he assumes a procession of nobles or palace-goers is making it way up from the port, based on how people lining the dusty street pause their business to stare. Some even crane their necks out of their houses to get a better look.

If it’s a royal procession, it’s a pitiful one indeed.

A group of four battered, emaciated men stagger down the road, pulling a single horse in their wake. The horse looks as though it’s fared no better - and it’s clear from the group’s condition that these men have crossed the vastness of the desert, rather than take a boat up the Nile. He wonders if they had four horses, once.

People murmur behind cupped hands as the group hobbles past, and Yugi can just barely make out the murmurings of one of the men when he draws close enough - _“gone, gone, all gone, it’s gone”_ \- but before he can wonder about it more, a voice barks from beside him.

“Yugi! Finish putting these away, before it gets too dark.”

When did his master come outside?

Yugi scrambles to do as he’s told, but as he drags the wood and tools back into the workshop, he can’t help noticing how his master never takes his eyes off the group making its way further and further up the road.

He decides it’s best not to ask about it.


	3. III.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The delay in this chapter is brought to you by moving houses, the Atlantic hurricane season, and one really demanding job. Sorry for being slow, but thank you for reading regardless. ♥

_A village is etched into the mountainside, facing east. The unique positioning lends it an inky quality as the sun sets, shadows seeming to pool prematurely around each dip in the sandstone, the air itself growing still and stale. This is only part of what fuels the rumors and wive’s tales, whispers of_ the city of thieves _, a hive that collects all the wrongdoings of the kingdom. Merchants and travelers take the longer road into Waset, opting to battle the relentless sun for longer if it means keeping a safe distance._

_A boy sits perched atop one of the squat buildings, voices filtering up from the exposed doorway. Idle, domestic chatter - lamenting the scarcity of key ingredients needed for the cooking, the ongoing wars, wondering at whether the gods will bless the crops this year. Despite the complaints, the boy knows dinner will be soon - the shadows have already lengthened, a darkness blanketing the entire city. He shouldn’t have to keep watch much longer._

_His eyes shift down to his younger companion, crouched in dust and sand, playing some game or other with stone tiles of his own invention. It must be difficult to see their thinly-etched markings in the fading light, but he seems undeterred._

_The older boy turns his eyes back to the horizon, waiting for _something_ to appear. It’s only a few minutes more before he pulls himself to his feet, squinting out at the figures cresting the mouth to the city. He freezes._

_“What’s wrong?” his young companion calls up, having somehow noticed the shift in his friend’s posture, despite being so engrossed in his own activities just moments ago._

__It’s not right _the older boy realizes, eyes widening. The raiding party had only been five horsemen strong. This - this is a group of twelve, and a chariot besides._

_These are the Pharaoh's men, come marching into the city of thieves._

_The boy leaps down from his perch, grabs his startled companion by the arm, and runs._

* * *

Sweat drips down Atem’s brow as he concentrates all his energy on the pendant clenched in his hands. His father had been thorough in explaining what he needed to do, but despite his best efforts, it’s no easy task. Shadow magic - the magic that lives within the Items - is much more difficult to control than the simple spells in Mahad’s spellbooks. With each passing moment, he understands a little better why each of the Pharaoh’s priests is chosen so selectively. Atem is beginning to fear he _himself_ doesn’t make the cut.

“You’re getting lost in your head again,” his father’s voice cuts in, Atem jumping in surprise. He’d been focusing so hard, he’d almost forgotten where he was. Cold stone, distant torches, his father’s figure silhouetted in the dim light - he takes a deep breath. Right. He can do this.

Atem turns his attention back to the pendant, closing his eyes and concentrating on the warmth that bubbles within it. The more time he spends with the Item, the more he thinks of it as a sentient being in its own right, one that he must form a relationship with if he hopes to lead his kingdom properly. It responds to him now, at least more than it did before. If he focuses, he can almost feel a web of threads coiled within it. It’s like each one has a mind of its own, and a different path it would lead him down, were he to follow it. If he reaches out and pulls on one -

Atem is halfway into redoubling his efforts when he feels a hand drop onto his shoulder, breaking his concentration. He cranes his neck to look up, brow furrowing. “Father?”

“I think you’ve earned a break,” Aknamkanon says mildly. Atem opens his mouth to protest, but thinks better of it. Though it’s been a week since the lessons began, the prince feels like he’s made no progress at all. It frustrates him on multiple levels - he doesn’t like _losing._

“Yes, father,” he says instead, passing the Millennium Pendant back to its owner. His father slips the rope over his head and takes a seat on the sandstone throne. Atem perches himself on one of the smaller seats next to him, normally reserved for the priests, and waits.

It’s at some length that Aknamkanon sighs. “I debated whether you were ready to begin working with the Items or not. I still believe that you are - but I recognize I may be asking things of you that are not fair.”

“Of course no-”

Aknamkanon raises a hand to silence him. “The burden of the Items is more than just the power that resides within them. It is also their history, and their future. Many sacrifices were needed to protect this kingdom from evil... and I fear more may still be required.”

“But the wars have ended, haven’t they?”

“War may never truly be over, my son.” Something about the grave exhaustion in his father’s voice sets Atem’s nerves on edge. “When the Items were first created, war was simply a way of life. To defend ourselves from the threats encroaching from all sides, we knew we would need something our enemies didn’t have.” Aknamkanon’s hand moves to rest atop the Millennium Pendant, Atem watching the torchlight dance across its golden surface. “It worked, for a time. Tales of our might were passed far and wide, until none took the risk of facing us directly. But I fear the Items alone will not remain a deterrent forever.”

Atem looks up from the pendant, frowning. There’s something significant that he’s missing, but he doesn’t know what it is. “Who would be foolish enough to face us? Did something happen?”

Aknamkanon shakes his head, but he doesn’t meet his son’s questioning gaze. “Though the Items were a tool used to wage wars, there is one important thing I wish for you to remember about them, Atem: they are far more effective as a tool of peace than of war. In your reign, I hope that this kingdom will finally know lasting peace.”

“I hope so as well,” Atem says quietly, though the conversation has left him feeling confused more than emboldened. His father’s hand settles on top of his head for a moment, giving it a brief ruffle, before he pulls himself to his feet. 

“Come. That’s enough for today. We’ll resume tomorrow.”

Atem wordlessly follows him back up the maze of steps and into the palace proper, his mind reeling all the while.

* * *

“Set?”

Atem waits while Set pretends to ignore him. Atem pretends not to notice.

“Set,” he repeats.

Set sighs and looks up from the scroll he’d been poring over. They find themselves alone in the library, Set engrossed in his studies and Atem engrossed in his own head. The secluded setting suits Atem just fine.

“I wanted to ask you something,” 

Set raises an eyebrow and sets the scroll aside. “It must be serious, then.”

“Sort of,” he agrees. He settles on the other side of the desk, wondering how to begin. Blunt is probably best. “It’s about the Millennium Items.”

“I assume you would know more about that topic than I would.”

“It’s not that. I was just wondering - you’ve already begun training with the Rod, haven’t you?”

Set frowns. “Of course. All priests in training are checked for their compatibility with the Items.”

“Right. I just wonder... how long did it take for you to - to form a bond with it?”

“You’ve begun training with the Pendant,” Set guesses, astute as ever.

“Yes,” Atem agrees, eyes falling to his hands folded in his lap. He didn’t think his line of questioning was _that_ transparent, but it is Set he’s talking to, after all.

“I assume it depends upon the Item and the person,” Set says reasonably. “Mahad was chosen by the Ring almost before he could even cast a basic spell.”

This doesn’t exactly comfort Atem. It must show on his face, because Set sighs and continues on.

“It sounds like you’re letting your pride get in the way of your training. You can’t be good at everything immediately, Atem.”

“I know that,” he says, frowning.

“Do you?” Set gives him a _look_ , then pulls his scroll back over. “My own training with the Rod is far from complete. Focus on what you need to do and stop worrying so much about the outcome.”

Atem opens his mouth to protest more, maybe to accuse Set of being hypocritical, but thinks better of it. He sighs and pulls himself to his feet, turning to leave, but pauses.

“Thank you, by the way.”

Set looks up wordlessly, eyebrow raised in silent question.

“For not telling my father - or anyone else.”

“I don’t suppose you’re planning to make a habit of it?” Set asks pointlessly, because he already knows the answer.

Atem just smiles and turns to leave; against all odds, he trusts Set to keep his secret.

* * *

Yugi pants, his feet pounding in the dirt, the hot afternoon air burning in his lungs. His stamina is failing him, he knows, and three heavy pairs of footsteps behind him confirms his suspicions. 

“Quit running!” one of the boys snaps, dashing forward and seizing Yugi by the collar of his white tunic. Yugi flails for a moment, but already knows escape is out of the question until the larger boys lose interest. He’s outnumbered, and even if he weren’t, he’s pathetically overpowered. “Turn out your pockets, runt.”

“Don’t you think you should rob someone a little more wealthy?” Yugi suggests reasonably, and gets a smack in the jaw for his trouble. One of the other boys plucks the drawstring bag out of Yugi’s pocket, ignoring his protests. He trashes, trying to grab the bag back. The contents of that wallet are supposed to feed him for a week!

“That’s it?” the third boy sneers, examining the meager spoils.

“I _did_ tell you-” Yugi says flatly, earning himself another smack upside the head.

“Hey!” A familiar voice breaks in. All four boys look around in surprise to see Yugi’s nameless friend at the mouth of the alleyway, looking stricken and furious. Yugi opens his mouth to tell him to leave - they’re outnumbered, after all, and it’s not worth him getting roughed up as well - when his friend draws a jewel-encrusted dagger from under his robes.

_What the hell?_

The sight of the blade is enough for the bullies to scatter; they come after Yugi because he’s an easy target, after all - why risk it on someone who’s actually armed? Yugi hits the ground with a loud _oof!_ , his bag and its contents dumped unceremoniously by the older boys as they flee. For a moment it seems like his friend is going to chase after them, but he dashes over to Yugi instead, knees hitting the dirt hard as he crouches down to check on him.

“Why do you have that?” Yugi asks, bewildered, as Atem slips the dagger back into his cloak. His friend must be wealthier (and maybe crazier) than he thought. 

“Are you alright?” Atem asks, ignoring the question altogether.

“I’m fine, it’s fine, don’t worry-”

“It’s not fine!” Atem cuts in, fuming. “Where are the soldiers? Why aren’t they doing anything about something like this?”

“They have bigger things to worry about than—”

“Protecting the citizens and keeping the peace is their job!”

Yugi blinks, confused by why this is such a source of ire. “I guess? But I’m fine, really, they tend to lose interest after a while-”

“This happens often?” Atem hisses.

“Not _often,_ ” Yugi protests. Well, maybe it is often, but he doesn’t exactly keep track. The thugs are just bored more than anything, and usually easy enough to avoid. “They’re just bored, that’s all.”

“They need to find better ways to pass their time.” Atem gets to his feet and offers a hand down to Yugi, pulling him up. 

“I don’t disagree,” Yugi says wryly, as he leans down to collect his drawstring bag and the various beads, marbles, and wooden tokens inside. He lifts it up for inspection once he’s done so, offers Atem a grin, and pockets it. “Thanks.”

Atem waves it off. “You’re sure you’re alright?”

“Positive,” Yugi says cheerfully, brushing the dust from his knees. “What’re you doing here, anyway?”

“Looking for you.”

“Oh.” Somehow, Yugi hadn’t considered that as a possible reason. “Really?”

“Really.”

Yugi beams, like that’s the best thing anyone’s said to him in a while, like Atem hadn’t just caught him in the middle of being beaten up by three people twice his size. “Well then, let’s go get some food!”

* * *

Atem is as fascinated by the food in the market as he was before, and had the foresight to bring something to trade with this time. The food isn’t the exquisite quality that’s served in the palace, but somehow that makes it all the more fascinating. He doesn’t hold back - fresh breads, still warm from the oven; meats on skewers, roasted over open flames; fruits in colorful piles, fresh off carriages and boats. He ends up with a pile of food that he and Yugi share between them, having selected a shaded spot by the river to dig into their feast. 

“How is your training going?” Atem asks after a while, remembering Yugi talking about it the last time they’d met.

Yugi picks at the hard crust of his bread, offering a crooked shrug. “Oh, you know... it’s the same as ever, I guess.”

“You don’t speak very passionately about it.”

“Well...” Yugi hesitates. No, he doesn’t love carpentry. But how can he possibly be so ungrateful as to complain? He’s beyond lucky to have his apprenticeship. 

Atem reads into his hesitation anyway. “Why don’t you quit?”

Yugi looks up sharply. “Quit?”

“You know - do something else. Something you love.” Yugi shakes his head ruefully, earning a frown from Atem. “Why not?”

“It’s just...” Yugi looks down at his blistered, splintered, bandaged hands. For some reason callouses never form on his hands as they do on his Master’s, leaving him with constantly-smarting fingers. “There aren’t many things out there for someone like me, you know? This way, at least... I’ll be able to provide for myself and survive.”

“‘Someone like you?’” Atem repeats, frown deepening.

“I’m not - good at most things,” Yugi admits, flustered. He suddenly can’t meet Atem’s gaze. “I’m not strong or brave, so it’s not like I could be a soldier or a priest, and I can’t read or write, so I couldn’t be a scribe, and I’m afraid of the water so I couldn’t be a fisherman or a sailor, and I don’t—”

“Yugi—”

“—really know what else I could do, when I’m just —”

“ _Yugi._ ”

Yugi’s mouth snaps shut, the tide of words trailing off.

“None of that is true at all. You’re extremely clever - not very many people can beat me at _any_ game, you know - so I doubt there’s anything you couldn’t learn if you set your mind to it. Besides that, you’re diligent and loyal, working as hard as you do on a trade you don’t care for, and you’re extremely kind - one of the first things you did when we met was give me food!”

Yugi’s face remains downturned, but even at this angle, Atem can see the crimson blush covering his cheeks.

“Thank you,” he says finally, thoroughly embarrassed.

“I’ll remind you as many times as needed,” he insists, not convinced the words have truly sunk in, but Yugi seems eager to change the subject. He flashes Atem a reassuring smile and waves a hand, as if to dismiss the whole topic. 

“But - I mean - there’s no use worrying about all that right now! We all just do what we have to to get by, right? Anyway... what about you? Do you intend to continue your father’s trade?”

Atem freezes, unprepared for the sudden turnabout. “What?”

Yugi tilts his head. “You know, being a merchant, traveling all over the world...”

“Oh.” Right. Of course. 

Atem weighs how much he’s willing to continue lying to Yugi. Some falsehoods are required to hide his identity, that much is true. But to reiterate the lies over and over... it makes him feel as though his cloak is suddenly too tight, and itchy to boot. 

“Well... I don’t know...” Will he continue his father’s trade? For certain. But being a merchant? Not exactly...

“Really?” Yugi stares at him, interpreting his hesitation as a negative. “But it seems like such an amazing way to live!”

“I’m sure it is - I mean, yes, of course, but it’s not that. It’s more like...”

“You have your heart set on something else?” Yugi suggests, while Atem searches for the right words.

Atem recalls what his father had said to him earlier. _In your reign, I hope that this kingdom will finally know lasting peace._ “I just— want to do something that will change the world for the better,” he blurts out, before realizing how foolish it sounds. Who says things like that?

He ducks his head as Yugi laughs, but despite that, his friend is beaming at him.

“I think that’s a good thing to strive for.”

“I know it sounds stupid—”

But Yugi shakes his head. “It doesn’t. And... I really think you’ll be able to do it.” 

The conversation trails off for a while, Atem embarrassed and Yugi pensive. They polish off the last of their lunch and watch the people and boats coming and going, a perfectly contented silence shared between them, before Yugi cuts in.

“You know, you never told me your name.”

Oh.

Somehow, Atem had failed to consider this part of his cover. Surely Yugi would recognize the name of his kingdom’s prince, wouldn’t he? Though Atem’s face may not be well known yet, surely his name would be. Could the same name be a mere coincidence? Maybe, but that isn’t a chance he can risk taking.

Shit.

“I was trying to be mysterious,” Atem hedges, tugging a little at the cloak that shades his face.

Yugi raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

No. “Yes.”

“So that includes not having a name, huh?”

Atem tilts his head up in mock-defiance at Yugi’s teasing tone, an idea forming. He can work with this. Better - he can think of a way to delay having to deal with this, probably for a long time. “How about this? If you can beat me in a game, I’ll tell you what my name is.” 

Yugi gapes. “What- really?!”

Atem grins. “You don’t accept?”

“I didn’t say that!”

“It’s settled, then. My name will be your prize.”

Yugi snorts, shaking his head, but his face is beginning to hurt from smiling. “What an honor! I’ll be sure to practice extra hard, then, just for that.”

“Good. You’ll need it.”

Yugi moves to elbow him in the side, just as Atem jumps to his feet and takes off down the dirt-packed road to escape. Yugi dashes after him, their laughter bouncing off the wooden stalls and sandstone houses.

* * *

Returning to the palace feels a bit like returning to reality. The time he spends with Yugi is almost dreamlike - nothing but two normal children tumbling around the city, doing as they please. It’s like he can momentarily forget all of his anxieties and responsibilities. 

But as he sneaks back into his own quarters, shedding the cloak and scrubbing the sand from his hair, the weight begins to settle back in. He lets his disguise drop to the floor of his sitting room and toes out of his sandals before realizing he’s not alone.

He freezes, locking eyes with the girl seated on a pillow across the room. Set normally sits there if they’re playing a game, or Mana, if they’re gossiping about things they don’t want to be overheard.

The girl bows low, her gold jewlery sparkling in the evening sunlight slanting through the large windows. Though he doesn’t know her specifically, he recognizes her jewlery and linen clothing as being from the royal harem. Atem had never spent much of his free time in or around the harem - somehow, the girls his age were more prone to rough-housing than even he was, preferring to settle in for a game or puzzle after long hours of physical, magical, and mental training. Most of his leisure time was spent with Mana or Mahad, if not alone. 

“Um...” He finds himself uniquely ill-equipped to handle the situation. “Hi.”

The girl smiles nervously and bows again, apparently reticent to speak. Atem steps further into the room and flounders for something, anything, to say. Should he introduce himself? No - _Gods_ , no, of course not. 

Instead: “What is your name?”

“I am called Kiya,” the girl responds, her voice quiet. She doesn’t go on to explain what she’s doing there, or what she needs - in fact, the awkwardness strung between them leads Atem to believe her being in his sitting room was no design of hers at all. Well, that makes two of them.

“Ah.” He settles himself on a pillow across from her, the full diameter of the woolen rug separating them. They watch each other, like two cats unsure who will startle first. “Did my father call you here?” he asks, unable to help himself.

“Yes, Prince,” Kiya says, her fingers worrying the trim of her linen skirt, like she fears that’s the wrong answer. Atem only sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he offers, gaze lingering on the anxious twist of her fingers. She looks up sharply, the surprise clear in her eyes. “He probably thinks I could use some friends.” Or a - _companion_ \- but he hastily decides not to think too hard on that. His father truly is trying to prepare him for all aspects of kingship. 

He bites back another sigh at the passing thought.

“Oh, but I’m sure the Prince has lots of friends -” 

“Not really,” Atem returns easily, though he smiles as he does so. He’s on at least friendly terms with most people, it’s true. But people he trusts, people he would consider _friends?_ The list is not lengthy. “Don’t worry,” he adds when he sees Kiya struggle to find a diplomatic response. “It’s not a bad thing, I don’t think.”

“... Perhaps not, if the Prince is not bothered by it.”

“You can call me Atem.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly be so-”

“It’s okay,” he insists. “So many people call me ‘Prince’ all the time, I’m afraid I might forget what my own name is.”

Kiya allows herself a small smile at that, a sparkle appearing in her eyes. “Well then, perhaps you should write it down so you don’t forget.”

“Perhaps I should,” he agrees in equally good humor. They watch each other, re-assessing.

“Your kohl - it looks perfect,” Atem blurts out after a few moments. Kiya blinks, and only then does Atem realize it might be an odd thing to fixate on. But he’s never been able to apply his so perfectly. He always has to smudge out the mistakes. 

“Thank you,” she says, her tense posture beginning to uncoil. “I learned from my mother. She’s very skilled with her hands - she can create almost anything.”

Atem hesitates for a moment. If he doesn’t have many friends - content though he may be - there’s only one way to change that, right? Isn’t making all the allies he can part of being an effective ruler? He already has a new friend in the city below. So... why not have a new friend right here in the palace?

“Will you show me how?”

Kiya looks taken aback, but then her smile widens. 

They spend the next hour huddled around Atem’s mirror, a pot of kohl between them, with Kiya offering instructions and advice while Atem lends the task the same rigorous attention he does any of his other studies. It’s probably not what his father had in mind when he called Kiya here, Atem knows. But based on the grins exchanged between them when Atem scrubs a crooked black line from under his eye for the third time, the actual outcome is far more satisfying for both of them.


End file.
